Her lips curled into a smile. “I wouldn’t. There is too much terrible music in the world to willingly subject oneself to it.”
He should tell her to leave. His music was his alone. He was simply a gentleman musician hobbyist.
And that was all he would ever be. Yet…
He wanted to play for her.
She continued. “What you were playing just now…”
“Yes?” Every muscle in his body tensed in anticipation of her answer.
“Your music isn’t that.” Her direct gaze held his, left him no room for charm or glibness.
“Isn’t what?”
“Terrible.”
“Well, that’s something, at least.”
She smoothed her palm across the sheets of music spread across the fallboard. “Shall I turn the pages for you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t need them.”
His fingers hovered above the keyboard. He didn’t have to do this. He was in no way obligated to play for her.
Except he wanted to.
And obligations and desires were two different entities entirely.
With banked intention, softly, his fingers came down on the keys. One note, then another, followed by a chord, then another, as the notes flowed from him, his fingertips becoming an extension of his soul, as they always did when he sat down to his instrument. His body swaying with the motion of his hands, he poured his entire being into the piece, fully succumbing to the music—hismusic—for his audience of one.
Her head tipped slightly to the side and eyes half closed, her entire being appeared concentrated in the act of listening.
His playing slowed. He was nearing the end of the piece. Well, not the end, but all he had.
Her eyes opened and met his. Knowledge shone within. She’d noticed the music losing its momentum, losing what magic it had possessed in the beginning.
She held up a hand, palm extended out. She was asking, nay, telling him to stop. “There,” she said.
“There where?”
“Play it again,” she said. “This time more slowly.”
Annoyed, Archie started from the beginning.Slowly, as commanded. Her gaze drifted away and into the distance, her head canted to the side. Her forefinger shot into the air, and her entire face went bright. “There!”
This again?
“Therewhere?” he demanded.
“Don’t you hear it after the C sharp?”
“Hear what precisely?” In some small way, he wanted to hear her opinion. But in a larger way, he didn’t. They always said artists were ticklish. He was no different.
“You take it into the major scale from there?—”
“Yes,” he said slowly.
“And then you give yourself nowhere interesting to go.”
